


greetings from wonderland

by onceuponamirror



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Banter, F/M, Snowed In, and pining, bed sharing, fluff with a bit o angst, lots of pining, prompt: jam as many wintery tropes as you can into a fic, the power goes out and oh no! it's very cold, which are including but not limited to:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-19 05:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13116663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamirror/pseuds/onceuponamirror
Summary: It was Veronica's idea: a snowy weekend away, just before the holidays, a chance for everyone to unwind, have fun, and get together for some much-needed wintery relaxation.Or, he knows there's a moral in here somewhere aboutbest laid plans.





	1. flurries

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stillscape](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillscape/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>   
> 

.

.

.

Jughead couldn’t say when it started, only that he’s sure it never ended.

It wasn’t really a conscious decision, or certainly not one he remembers making; as far back as his mind can go, she was just _there_ —at first when he didn’t want her to be, when she inserted herself into the dynamic of best-friendship with Archie, when she began materializing on bean bags, began offering her opinions on conversations he distinctly never invited her into.

At the time, it set his teeth on edge.

Because all _he_ had to his name was a rusty bicycle, a pair of increasingly bickering parents, and the demilitarized zone of the Andrews’ house. And everything he knew about Betty Cooper implied that she had her fair pick of friends, but for some reason, she’d set her sights on stealing his only one.

But those memories are fuzzy, round at the corners, something to squint at; unlike the ones that bubble up against his chest when he watches the breath curl out of his lungs against cold winter air, the thoughts that manifest when he’s wide awake at three in the morning and wondering why success feels so empty—no, those memories are sharp.

Betty Cooper is sharp as she smiles at him at age eleven, having butted herself into his-home-before-it-was-a-trailer, the moment he’d let it slip that his mom had to work late all week and he wouldn’t have anything to bring for the school bake sale.

She makes rice krispies treats and lets him eat from the extra box she’d brought.

Betty Cooper is sharp when they watch their first PG-13 movie together; the three of them, him, her, and Archie, all huddled on the couch in Betty’s basement, watching as the film’s couple embraces passionately on the screen. He’s seen movies with this rating before, but only alone, and he is suddenly hyperaware that there is a girl sitting next to him.

Archie makes dramatic kissing noises and snickers, but Betty and Jughead say nothing.

He thinks it’s for the same reason but a different thought, because later, the music screeches and swells as the heroine races against the clock, and she buries her head into Archie’s shoulder.

Betty Cooper is sharp the first time he sees her applying lip gloss in the reflection of a cell phone, and it feels painfully strange, like he’s stumbled in on something he doesn’t think he was supposed to see.

Maybe it’s because he knows she saw him looking.

He could probably give it a name, if he really wanted to. Could give it purpose in a game of tenderhearted charades; one syllable, no tangible category, rhymes with _rush,_ and just as annoying a sensation.

To call it pining might be too dramatic, even by his standards; they both have dated other people, and he’d been to enough lectures in college and read enough of his sister’s books to know there is no such thing as a friendzone. She’s always been his friend first, and that’s all he cares about, in the end.

So it buries itself over the years—but not before it nearly reared up once, the week after she got back from an internship in Los Angeles, the summer after she’d confronted her crush on Archie, and when she’d had Jughead over to discuss her plans for the school paper this year, and he’d thought it might be romantic—somehow—to use Fred Andrews’ old, rickety ladder to climb into her window.

He’d wanted to do something about it, and nearly kissed her in the moment. She’d been jabbering on about his obsession with semi-colons and all he could think about was how soft her little white sweater looked, and how pink her lips were, and how badly he wanted to kiss her.

But a nerve is something struck, not something held. He lost it, and sat on his hands.

He doesn’t know when it began.

He just wishes it would go away.

.

.

.

“It’s not like Betty to be late,” Veronica sighs, glancing at the absurdly tiny, sparkly silver watch laid cleanly across her wrist.

“Yeah, should we start eating without her?” Archie asks distractedly, his eyes hungrily roving over the white and red Chinese take out boxes. “I don’t think she’d mind.”

Jughead throws them both confused looks—one to Archie, for rudely crowding in on his role as the belligerent food trough, and one to Veronica, for not knowing that while Betty is certainly the eye of prompt on an average day, this close to the month of December, the little blonde hamster that powers Betty’s thoughts is always sprinting one place to another and rarely ever on time.

It’s always mid-way through November, while most people are still baking pumpkin pies and preparing for Thanksgiving family feuds, that Betty Cooper jumps into a pre-emptive Christmas spirit, furiously writing up a master list of gifts, plans for places to hide mistletoe in inconvenient doorways, pulling out her chunky, fair isle sweater collection—Betty has always got her hands full this time of year.

He opens his mouth to remind them both of this, but in that moment, a lock clicks in the door, they all turn to towards the sound, and as it swings open, there is a single, absurd moment where Jughead genuinely thinks he’s about to be attacked by the abominable snowman.

Blinking at the puffy white figure in the doorway, his eyes adjust, and he realizes it’s neither an escaped yeti nor the Michelin man, but Betty Cooper, bundled up to the nines in a long, cream-colored puffer, white earmuffs and matching scarf, her winter boots nearly entirely dusted over in snowy powder.

She unwraps the scarf from around her mouth slowly, like some kind of festivus-mummy, and then lets out a loud, apologetic breath.

“I’m so sorry I’m late!” She bemoans, stomping her feet in a small circle in the hallway just beyond the doorway, kicking off as much snow as she can. “It’s still snowing like crazy, even though New York has forgotten it’s only November, but it slowed everything down, and I was on the phone with my sister and lost track of time and you know what midtown is like this time of year, and—”

“Betty, _air,”_ Jughead interrupts, shaking his head.

Her mouth opens and closes once, her eyes narrowing in something like amused frustration, but with him or herself, Jughead isn’t sure.

“It’s okay. We waited for you,” Archie announces, almost proudly, and both Veronica and Jughead turn withering looks on him, as if he hadn’t been thirty seconds away from shotgunning lo mein.

Betty kicks off her boots, sheds her thick coat, and somehow there’s an inexplicably extra bulky cardigan on underneath. She deposits all her items onto the nearby standing rack, shivers slightly in her lavender turtleneck, and then trots over to the dining table, slipping into the available chair next to Jughead.

She shoots him a small smile, and it’s annoyingly infectious.

Her nose is very pink, and it’s making her eyes look greener.

“Do you think you had enough layers on?” He asks her lowly, reaching forward and grabbing the box of sweet and sour pork.

She rolls her lips in a _pfft_ sound, not looking impressed with his attempt to jibe at her. “I run cold.”

“I know,” he says, pouring a bit of the pork onto her plate, as he also knows she likes it.

She mouths a _thanks,_ already reaching over him for the rice, her eyes still scolding him wordlessly for offending her internal thermostat. “It’s _snowing.”_

He takes the egg rolls from Archie, and puts one on his plate, and another on hers before passing them on to Veronica. “I know.”

Veronica waits until everyone has food on their plate before clearing her throat, which Jughead hadn’t honestly thought could be a dainty sound before he met her. “Okay, gang. What was the highlight of everyone’s week? Archiekins, care to start?”

“Not this game again,” Jughead sighs through a mouthful of pot sticker. “Here, watch. Archie will say the highlight of his week was _you, babe,_ and you will say that yours was pinning the soft underbelly of a feckless defense attorney under your heel, and Betty will say hers was…ice skating with her niece and nephew.”

“Why does Betty get a nice thing?” Archie mutters, at the same time that Veronica sneers at Jughead and icily says, “You forgot to recap yourself.”

Jughead waves the limp end of an egg roll at Veronica. “Because _this_ is the highlight of my week,” he drawls thinly, and her eyes turn to amused slits.

“I’d like to excommunicate Jughead from the inner circle,” Veronica says abruptly, leaning in on her elbows and clasping her fingers together. “Shall we vote on it?”

“I think it’s a nice game,” Betty intercedes, her hands splayed out placatingly. She waits a beat, as if considering if further intervention is necessary. “But Jughead was right, even though he cheated, as he knows I took my niece and nephew ice skating on Sunday, when Polly brought them down. But it was really fun.”

Jughead stifles a sigh, as he can picture it a little too easily, her swirling around on a frozen lake, her ponytail memorizing the circle of her skates; he has no doubt that Betty genuinely did find it _fun._

After all, despite the fact that she truly does always seem to be the coldest person in a room, Jughead has long observed a love for winter activities in Betty. Maybe it’s compensation.

“How is Polly?” Archie asks, pouring more lo mein onto his plate. “I don’t think she was at your parents' house last time I went to see my dad.”

“She actually moved out, finally,” Betty says, her lips curling upwards. “She saved up enough for an apartment. It’s small, but cute, and I think she’s constantly stressed about being a single parent, but that’s pretty par for the course at this point.”

“God, I can’t imagine,” Veronica sighs, her lips pulling downwards. “Raising two kids on her own like that? Iconic, but.”

“I know,” she replies, pushing the last bit of pork around on her plate as she digs the flat of her palm into her chin. “Poor Polly. She was so excited just to go window-shopping for like, _one_ day without her kids. The bar for fun seems so low.”

Veronica makes a noise in the back of her throat, her eyes staring out at nothing in the way that they do when something is clicking and churning away in her thoughts.

And then, with a small gasp and a smile that only could preclude what Jughead would describe as _famous last words,_ “I have the solution.”

She pauses, for what he’s sure is dramatic effect, her hands up against an invisible wall in front of her. “Connecticut.”

“Connecticut?” Betty repeats, her nose wrinkling curiously. Archie is watching his girlfriend carefully, chewing silently, and Jughead’s eyes flick across all three of them as Veronica holds for full effect.

“My parents have this cabin in some nowhere part of the state they bought to flip, but they couldn’t sell it before winter, and so now they’re just holding onto it until spring thaw, since the market dips so much this time of year,” Veronica explains. “I’m thinking we can have a fun, seasonal get together. It’s not too far that Polly is out of range of her kids, but far _enough_ that she could actually get a mini-vacay.”

Betty looks thoughtful. “That does sound really nice, actually,” she says slowly, allowing a soft smile. “And Connecticut borders Massachusetts, so I bet Kevin could come.”

“He is always complaining about how bored he is in Boston,” Veronica grins, a bit impishly. “I don’t know what he expected from a city that openly labels itself Beantown, but I digress. Just don’t let him bring _Settlers of Catan_ this time. I do _not_ get that game, and that’s saying something, as my family is in the business of development.”

“Uh, hold on,” Archie interjects, looking uncharacteristically concerned. “When exactly are you talking about, Ronnie?”

Veronica appears vaguely nonplussed by Archie’s attempt to pull her out of her snowballing party planning, her eyebrows raised. “Middle of December. Most of us will have just started our holiday breaks from work, but with enough time that we can burrow a weekend away.”

“Don’t you think that’s kind of a tight turnaround?” He asks, scratching at his temple. “Uh, I mean, we’re supposed to go see my dad _and_ my mom this year.”

She blinks, exchanging a quick look with Betty across the table. “I expected protestation from Holden Brood-field, but not you, Archiekins. And besides, of the two people in this relationship, which of us actually owns a calendar?”

“I have a calendar,” Archie says at once, almost a bit offended. He pauses. “It’s on my phone, but it’s still a calendar.”

“Well _I_ own an adorable Kate Spade filofax that Betty got me for my birthday last year, and I am very adept at using it. Why don’t you leave the scheduling and party planning to me? I’ll make sure everything runs smoothly,” she says, patting his hand gently.

Archie doesn’t say anything else, continuing to squirm with a frown, but Veronica seems to have moved on, casting her eyes around the rest of the table. “So it’s agreed? I’ll send invites to Kevin and Polly. Cheryl too, on second thought, lest we ask for war. Plus ones should be fine, considering how big the house is.”

“You haven’t asked me for my opinion,” Jughead sighs, though at this point it appears to be a conversation Veronica is carrying on exclusively to herself.

“Do you have one?” She counters dubiously.

“Yes, and it’s that I’m not going to any such shindig,” he replies, rolling his eyes.

“Juggie, come on,” Betty says from beside him, passing him a withering glare. “Of all the people here, you don’t want to go to a beautiful, secluded snowy cabin where you can peacefully write and disappear for a few days?”

He snorts. “Tell me one thing that’s peaceful about a weekend with Cheryl Blossom.”

“It’s a free vacation,” Betty offers, obviously in lieu of any kind of actual answer. She puts down her fork in order to place her hand on his arm for emphasis. “Free.”

“That is my favorite word,” he says on an exhale, trying to keep his eyes off the hand which is currently radiating warmth through his thick plaid over shirt. He meets her gaze. “I’ll think about it. But think is the operative phrase.”

The lights in Veronica and Archie’s apartment are low, warm, and golden as the faint crooning of Bing Crosby promises a _winter wonderland,_ and he is once more seized by the shape of her mouth.

“You’re coming,” Betty says confidently, some kind of twinkle light reflected in her eye, and in that moment, he knows that she’s right.

She lifts the hand off his arm.

.

.

.

A few weeks later, as he sits at his work desk typing away, his phone rings; he’s expecting a call from his sister sometime today, but knowing her, that could mean anywhere from right now to past midnight.

He glances at the clock overhead, but his eyes hover on the small water stain next to it, the one that he thinks looks like a Labrador. However, when he glances at the caller ID, he sees that it’s Betty, and he answers it on speakerphone.

“I got off work early today. Wanna come to Trader Joe’s?” She asks without preamble. A car honks vaguely somewhere in the background, and she sounds a little breathy, and it’s momentarily distracting until he remembers it’s below freezing outside.

“Hello to you too, Betts,” he sighs, saving his work on the Word document.

“Hi, Juggie,” she says wearily. “So. Trader Joe’s?”

His fingers continue to clack through a sentence on the screen. “Are you only asking me because I’m the only person you know who is free during all odd hours of the afternoon?”

“You are not the only freelancer I know,” she says, clearly a bit exasperated. “I work in publishing. And _okay,_ like you’re not just sitting in your living room, staring at the mark on your wall that looks like Nixon.”

“I am working, but for the record, we’ve definitely established it’s a dog.” Unable to help themselves, his eyes travel back up to the water stain once more. He hears a sharp intake of breath from across the line. “And before you say anything, anyone worth their salt knows that Rorschach tests are just experiments in confirmation bias. So let’s not.”

She exhales. “Whatever you say, Juggie. Anyway, do you want to come or not? I’m going shopping for food supplies for the trip and I figured you’ll want input, considering I expect you to put away about half of it yourself.”

“Fair point,” he says, considering this. Plus, he’s been itching for a break and wandering around a grocery store with Betty honestly sounds like an ideal one. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Yay! I’ll see you in fifteen,” she says, immediately hanging up, and of course she was already on her way to his place. He blows out a breath, and spends the next couple of minutes searching the apartment for his scarf and gloves, which he has the habit of tossing around without much thought.

He finds them just as she knocks at the door, once more heavily smothered by her own puffy clothes, shifting slightly on his porch as if to keep warm.

“I don’t know why you came all the way to Queens,” he sighs, gesturing for her to come in. “I would’ve come to Brooklyn.”

“It’s not so long a train ride,” she says from under her scarf. “And I like your neighborhood. All the houses, it’s like you forget you’re even technically in a borough. Sometimes I think I’d want to live a little further out myself. Best of both worlds.”

“Don’t let Veronica hear you saying that,” he teases, pulling on his knit gray gloves. “I think she hasn’t fully let go of the fantasy that you’ll come back to Manhattan and be her live-in third wheel.”

“I lived with her and Archie for one month, and trust me, that was enough,” she sighs, her nose wrinkling distastefully over a memory. “Can we take the truck?”

He levels her with a flat look. “Only if you want to go to Long Island. I’ll never be able to park otherwise. And I’m not crossing Manhattan just to get to Jersey.”

“Juggie, half the reason you live all the way out here is because you refused to get rid of your truck, so what’s the good of that if you never take it anywhere? We can go full suburb. The stores are bigger in Long Island anyway, and we have a lot of groceries to get.”

“I always knew you were bridge and tunnel,” he says, but grabs his keys from the bowl and the ice shovel from the bucket by the door. He spends a few minutes scraping off last night’s freeze while Betty warms up the engine, and then they’re off, peeling onto the road.

“So who’s coming to this thing, anyway?” He asks, following signs that’ll lead him further down the peninsula.

“Kevin says barring no sudden, last minute Hanukkah party from his crazy aunt, he and Moose are in. Cheryl said she and Toni will come, which means they won’t, so you can save your breath—but Polly is so excited to spend some time around adults that aren’t planning play-dates or our own parents. And it’ll be nice to actually spend some time with her, for once.”

“That’s good, considering this whole thing is supposedly for her,” he says, grinning at her.

“And you’re still coming, right?” Betty asks, a bit skeptically as they change highways.

His eyes flick from car to car, and then to her. “I’m taking you to get food for said trip, aren’t I?”

“It’s just that it’s going to be mostly couples. Polly and I will need you at the singles table, Jug. Solidarity,” she adds, in her most curling of voices.

Jughead sighs.

“Solidarity,” he agrees.

.

.

.

Bright and early Saturday morning, Betty appears once more on his doorstep, laden with canvas grocery bags and a small suitcase. She shuffles her way inside, shivering slightly as her face clearly wrestles with the decision on whether to scold him for being too cheap to turn on the heat.

“Bad news,” she says, once she’s kicked the snow off her boots. “Kevin called yesterday; his aunt is having a Hanukkah party after all, and he says, and I quote, ‘there’s no way out of it, because then she’ll die and haunt him just to guilt trip him for the rest of his life.’ So he and Moose are out.”

“And here I’d been so looking forward to another thrilling conversation about drywall,” Jughead says, though Betty throws him a stern look.

“Moose is a contractor, Juggie, it’s his job to know that kind of thing. And don’t be a jerk,” she scolds, although her face doesn’t quite hold any anger, as they both know Moose’s love of plaster isn’t exactly scintillating conversation.

Jughead knows there’s a joke in there about _watching paint dry,_ but he decides to spare her.

Betty glances around the room. “Anyway. Am I the only one here yet? I thought we were caravanning. The others are still getting a rental car, right?”

“I tried calling Archie, but his phone was off, or busy, or something. But nothing less than a natural disaster would keep Veronica from a party of her own design, so I’m sure they’re on their way already,” he says, shrugging.

She hums under her breath, pulls out her phone, and taps out a couple of text messages. “I’m just telling Polly and Ronnie we’re gonna head out and they should too. There’s a storm supposedly hitting northern Connecticut later today and I want us to beat it.”

“Roger that,” he says, picking up the already packed backpack that was waiting by the front door. “Well, I’m ready.”

Betty stares at it. “That’s all you’re bringing?”

He rolls his eyes and gathers his keys. “What else do I need besides my laptop, one change of clothes and a toothbrush? Why, what’s in _your_ entire suitcase?”

“Clothes, pajamas, books, card games, board games,” Betty lists as he locks up his front door. “That kind of thing.”

“Yeah? How many sweaters are you bringing?”

“I run cold,” she grumbles as she trundles carefully over the packed snow on his front drive, but she appears to be smiling slightly at the sport of playing with repeated history.

“I know,” he replies, grinning, and opens the car door for her.

.

.

.

Halfway through the drive, long after they’ve compromised on the music—Betty begged for Christmas jingles, he outright refused, and so they had to meet in the middle on a jazzy, very-vaguely-holiday-themed Spotify playlist—Betty’s phone rings.

“Hi Pol,” Betty answers, her socked feet propped up against the heat registers so that her knees are folded close to her chest, supporting the mystery thriller she’s been reading aloud for both of them. He knows it’s an unladylike pose Alice Cooper would shrill at, which is why he guesses she likes sitting that way. “Did you get my texts? If you’re there already, Ronnie says the key is under the—”

She falls silent as her sister begins to speak; her voice is muffled, and Jughead can’t quite make out what she’s saying, but based on the growing look on Betty’s face, it can’t be good.

“Are you sure?” Betty says finally, biting on her lip. “It’s just that… Yeah… No, no, of course. Rose needs you. Okay. Love you too. Talk soon.”

She ends the call, and meets his eye, looking despondent. “Polly’s not coming. Rose has the flu, and she can’t leave her.”

“I’m sorry, Betty,” he says, after a long moment. “I know you were looking forward to having the weekend with your sister.”

Betty blows out a breath, her attention now focused on the windshield wipers as they push powdery snow off the window of the truck. “It’s fine. So it goes, sometimes. We’ll still have a fun weekend. You, me, Archie, and Ronnie. It’ll be great.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, unsure of what else to say except to echo her sentiments, hollow as they sound, as he’s distinctly aware they still haven’t heard from Archie or Veronica all day. “It’ll be great.”

.

.

.

Directions have them pull down a long, wintery drive, at the end of which is an incredibly comfortable-looking but older house, painted white with a soft green trim, and he swears Betty gasps something that sounds like _green gables_ under her breath. A large pile of logs are stacked on the porch, which also offers a swing and birdfeeder, though he supposes that has probably not been used in a while.

The snow is coming down much faster now, and a look at the sky doesn’t promise much relief, but he supposes this is the price of a winter wonderland. It’s been a while since he’s lived anywhere that the snow doesn’t blacken within an hour, but seeing it now, he remembers how nice the concept can be when not polluted by city life.

They park and he gathers their bags while Betty rummages through the woodpile to find the spare key, and opens a door to a chilly but cozy house, complete with a large fireplace and several perfectly-lumpy looking couches covered in quilts.

It has the kind of vaguely rustic, American folk-craft atmosphere he’s always secretly admired and he’s sure Betty will adore, but when he looks over at her, she’s frowning at her phone.

“I’m starting to get worried,” she says, sounding it. “We haven’t heard from Archie or Veronica all day. Archie, I expect this from. But Veronica is practically glued to her phone—do you think they’re okay?”

He puts down the bags in order to place his hands on her shoulders. Truthfully, he’s been wondering the same thing, but if he starts voicing that, she will probably spiral. “Yes, Betts. I’m Archie’s emergency contact, and if something really bad had happened, I would’ve gotten a call.”

Betty wrestles with a long-suffering look, but seems to relax under his touch, his fingers rubbing gently into her sweater. Nevertheless, she still shakes her head and says, “You’re so morbid.”

“I’m morbid, and I’m hungry. I’m sure they’re on their way—they probably don’t have service, we lost it for a while too. Let’s make lunch.”

She sighs and nods, and goes into the kitchen to unpack all of the groceries they settled on earlier in the week. He turns on the heat and a couple of lights, and together, they prepare a couple of simple sandwiches. As they eat, he attempts to distract her with his opinions on the new Tarantino movie, but her eyes keep glancing back at her cell phone, and he guesses all she can think about is Archie and Veronica currently overturned somewhere in a snowy ditch.

Eventually, the anxiety begins to palpably shift from just her face as her hands begin to wring themselves, and it’s starting to rub off on him, as his own disaster scenario takes form in his thoughts.

“I’m going to get started on dinner,” she announces, even though it’s only just past noon. “I’m thinking we’ll cook the chicken and then make a bone broth for the stew. It’ll take a while, so we should get started—”

“Betty.”

“—I didn’t think to bring celery for a soup, but we have carrots and sweet potatoes and canned tomatoes, so a minestrone should—”

“Betty,” he tries again, and finally, she looks at him, her hands on her hips. “Your phone is ringing.”

She dives for it, and he sees at the same time that it’s a FaceTime call, Veronica’s beaming face flickering onto the screen. “Hello?” Betty asks, clicking the green button that unlocks the call.

“Oh my god,” is what Jughead thinks he hears Veronica say, but it’s in a rush, all at once, and what it truly sounds like is incomprehensible to his ears between all the giggling.

“Are you guys okay? We’ve been trying you all afternoon. We’re at the house, and it’s starting to really come down now, and I was so worried—” But Betty falls silent, her mouth snapping comically shut, her eyes bulging, and Jughead moves closer to see what caused such a reaction.

Veronica is holding up her left hand, and on it is a diamond of what even he knows is massive proportions, glittering brightly through the phone. “Archie proposed this morning!”

The pause that follows is just long enough to be suspicious, and then Betty echoes Veronica’s shrieking, and cries, “Oh my god!”

“That’s why he was being so weird about this little trip! He’s been planning for months. He woke me up early this morning with my favorite French breakfast in bed, and the ring was right there, in the middle of the tray. He had this whole central park carriage ride planned, all these roses showed up at our apartment, and hired a chef for the day—oh my god, B, it’s been so romantic,” Veronica says, a swoon in her voice. “We were… _celebrating_ until recently, which is why I missed all your texts! I’m so sorry, but I think obviously we’re not going to make it.”

 _Celebrating,_ he thinks, snorting. That would explain it. But honestly, somehow, he’s not surprised it happened today. He’d known Archie was planning a proposal, vaguely; he’d mentioned it once in passing, earlier in the year.

The four of them had been having their bi-monthly dinner at the Manhattan apartment, and the girls had gotten up to open a bottle of wine. Archie had turned to him, his voice low and full of warmth, and had said, “I’m going to marry her.”

His eyes were on Veronica, and Jughead had looked at Betty.

Now, he smothers the thought that Archie’s idea of peak romance is something born out of a Hallmark movie, but Veronica seems obviously thrilled with it, and so he pokes his head over Betty’s shoulder. “Congratulations, guys,” he says.

“Yeah, that’s amazing,” Betty adds, her voice hitching slightly. “I’m so happy for you guys.”

“You’re going to be my maid of honor, obviously, and I have roughly a dozen to a hundred concepts already brewing for the wedding, but for now—we’re having an impromptu lunch with my parents to tell them, so I have to go, you guys enjoy the cabin, I’ll see you when you’re back!” Veronica takes a breath only to release a happy little shriek. “Ah! Okay, I have to dash. Love you!”

And then she’s gone, and Betty gapes at her phone, her eyebrows raised. She puts it down on the countertop and begins pulling out carrots from one of the grocery bags, almost as if on autopilot, clearly unsure what else to do with herself.

His first thought is: _I’m going to be alone with her all weekend in this snowy, cozy house._

It’s one thing to take her grocery shopping or sit with her for hours in his truck as they weave through traffic—and it’s another to grapple with the dawning realization that _cozy_ could be synonymous with _romantic_.

His second thought is: _something seems wrong._

He hesitates, watching as she begins a task of chopping the vegetables, but with quite more force than he’s seen her use before. He waits a longer moment. “Are you okay?”

Betty looks up, her whole face crinkling. “Of course I’m okay. What else would I be? Our best friends just got engaged.”

“Well, you’re holding that knife kind of tightly,” he points out, glancing at it one more time. “And I know you used to…used to have feelings for Archie, so I just thought I’d check—”

“Excuse me?” Betty interrupts, her eyes turning into something cold and somehow open with color, and clearly shocked. “Are you serious? I haven’t had feelings for Archie for over _ten years,_ Jug.”

Something like regret starts in his toes, as the tone in her voice sounds wholly genuine.

“Feelings like that can be hard to shake,” he hears himself say, and his mouth immediately clamps shut after that, afraid of what that might imply.

 _I’ve never really shaken you,_ he thinks.

But if she can read his mind, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she pauses, her face now unreadable as she pushes back from the counter. “Have you been thinking I’ve held onto that stupid crush for all this time? While he dated my best friend no less?”

He feels as though he’s got some kind of hand in a cookie jar and rubs heavily at his face. “No, no, I don’t. But…part of me wondered, because I mean, all the guys _you’ve_ dated are kind of that vibe.”

Her neck arches back in the way it only does when she’s truly offended. “Kind of _vibe?_ What the hell does that mean?”

“Trev, Adam… I’m not saying they were just different versions of Archie, but they both looked like you’d personally ordered them out of the Vermont Country Store catalogue. They were nice and safe, like Archie was. Or like—you know, like you were dating yourself.”

Betty’s eyes are wide upon him, her bottom lip pressing out in the way it does when she’s building anger. He knows he’s said the wrong thing about ten times over now; knows he’s just digging his grave further at this point, but he’s never had an opportunity to air these thoughts, and now that they’ve found an opening, he can’t take them back.

Somehow, doesn’t want to.

Betty crosses her arms, the telltale signs of fury now broad onto her features. “I didn’t realize you had so many opinions on my dating life, Jughead,” she says frostily. “And that’s pretty rich, coming from you. Do you think there are kettles and pots black enough in this cabin to make a point?”

“The fuck does that mean?” He scowls, unprepared for this dive in the conversation.

“Considering all you’ve ever done is date yourself too, I find it kind of unbelievable this is your takeaway,” she says, shoulders straightening.

“Ha! I knew you never liked Sabrina,” he says, pointing at her, his eyes narrowed, something firm swelling into his chest. It feels oddly victorious, and oddly petty, but he’s already latched onto it.

Betty’s nostrils flare as she inhales loudly, a sign that she’s about to rant. “God, Jug. Of course I liked Sabrina. As a person. I just didn’t think she was right for _you._ I mean, you two were so _annoying_ together. She was like your carbon copy—all you did was talk about film and neo-noir all day! Every time we got together with you guys it was like I was trapped inside the actor’s studio!”

He watches her ponytail fly around her as she paces the kitchen, her hands gesticulating wildly around her face, and a very, very small voice whispers a theory. He’s desperate to hold onto it, as pathetic as it is. _Was she jealous?_

Instead, he asks, “And you didn’t think to tell me that at any point during a nearly two-year relationship?”

She huffs, sounding cross. “I did. Remember, like six months in, you brought her to a bar with us and asked me what I thought? And I said she was just fine?”

Jughead stares at her. “ _That_ was you telling me to break up with her? Christ, Betts, how the hell was I supposed to know that’s what you meant?”

“Oh, come on! How could I have been more clear? You’re a writer, Jug, I thought you could read between lines!” She’s shouting now, and he realizes he’s been too.

Seeming to think the same thing, Betty exhales and pinches at her temples. “What is the point of this conversation? That we’ve been dating the wrong people?”

He chews at the inside of his lip. “I don’t know.”

Betty’s hands leave the space on her hips, her face taking a turn, her eyes widening. “I mean, who do you think we should be dating? What are you really trying to say?”

“I—” He blinks, and considers whether this is the moment he blurts it out. Wonders if now is the opportunity to rush forward and cradle her face in his hands and kiss her like he’s always wanted to.

But what if she rejects him? What if she’s horrified by the move? What if that ruins everything they have between them, breaks the whole group dynamic in half, destroys their history? And isn’t this the dangerous cycle he’s always played in his head, every time the desire blossoms?

Her eyes run all over his face, waiting for an answer.

“I’m not trying to say anything,” he says finally, sounding oddly weary to his own ears. “This whole thing really got away from me. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I brought any of this up.”

Jughead might swear she deflates a little as she retreats further into the kitchen. “Fine. You know what, Jug, I think we might murder each other if we spend a whole weekend here. Let’s just pack up and go back to New York. I’ll handle the food, you warm up the truck.”

“Fine by me,” he mutters, distinctly feeling like it’s a lie. He trods away from the kitchen, unwilling to admit it might be more of a stomp, and pulls his keys out of the pocket as he throws open the front door.

And then he stops dead in his tracks.

It’s only been a few hours, but what was a pretty, gentle flurry of snow fluttering down around them when they arrived has mutated into something much more furious; the wind whips forcefully at his cheeks as it tosses snow left and right across his vision, and his stomach sinks as he realizes Betty’s much earlier prediction of a storm hitting the area was very correct.

It’s a blizzard.

He pokes his head around the corner of the door, gaping at his truck, halfway already covered up in snow.

Jughead closes the door, and pads back into the kitchen, feeling pale. Betty looks up from her work of bagging lettuce. “What?” She asks carefully, clearly picking up on the mood.

He scratches at the back of his neck. _Cozy, romantic,_ and _snowed in_ all flash menacingly in his thoughts, and he swallows as he says, “I think we’re stuck here.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: [winter wonderland](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zifGp5KTBKg) by bing crosby (and the inspiration for the title), [on the street you live](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gs65pSEA-VE) by dean martin, and [satin doll ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=suQz1qcjSi4)by ella fitzgerald. like jughead, i'm not an xmas music person, but i can compromise on crooning, jazzy, vaguely holiday-ish songs. :) 
> 
> so originally this was a oneshot from solely jug's pov, but after i hit 6k words and was only halfway, i realized with dawning horror this had all gotten away from me and i had to restructure. so the second half from betty's pov will be up soon! 
> 
> happy holidays to stillscape, to whom this is for, and to all of you!!! let me know what you thought of this first installment---much more fluff to come! but reviews are very much appreciated.
> 
> (also the graphic lettering at the top was also done by me, god, find me something that doesn't spiral out of control)


	2. the winds

 

.

.

.

For a long moment, they look at one another, and the weight of his words sink into the floor between them, a beast in quicksand.

Finally, she says, “What?”

“I think we’re stuck here,” he repeats, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb, gesturing at one of the living room windows, which normally appears frosted over until she realizes it’s just white snow flying diagonally across the world outside.

She crosses the room to place her fingers against the glass, and sees his truck in the drive buried up to the front wheel, and knows he’s right, they’ve got no chance of leaving any time soon.

He’s watching her when she turns around, discomfort plain on his face. He appears to be choosing his words very carefully, clearly treading around the remnant tension of their fight. “Now what?”

Betty blows out a breath, watching as the tiniest speck of light hits it in the cold house. The heat is on, but is clearly an old radiator, as it seems to be building slowly.

She’d be lying if she didn’t say she’s still frustrated with him—his words of  _safe, safe, Adam and Trev were just safe_ are currently running on loop in the back of her thoughts, palpable enough to compete with the blizzard beyond the walls—but there’s nothing left to do but continue her plan of cooking an elaborately long meal, at this point.

It’ll still kill the time.

“I’m going to get started on the chicken,” she murmurs, shivering from the bit of frosty air that has snuck in through the old window.

“Betty…” He says as she walks past him, but he doesn’t seem to have anything to follow up the conversation with past just saying her name, as he sounds resigned and doesn’t follow her into the kitchen.

Eventually, he just says, “I’ll start a fire,” and disappears briefly through the front door, returning with as many logs as his arms can carry and dumping them before the large wood stove fireplace.

The house is open plan, and she can see him clearly from her spot at the counter, sorting through the materials to make a fire.

There’s snow dusting his beanie, and she’s glad his back is turned, as he won’t be able to see her small, reflexive smile.

But it drops off her face as soon as she realizes it’s there. Why did he have to go and say those things? Why did he have to poke her like that, compare Trev and Adam? And to _Archie_ no less?

She attempts to busy her hands with prepping the chicken, which she’d only half started repacking, but her mind continues to sputter and fester; had he really thought she’d held onto those feelings for Archie all those years? _Is that why—_

Betty exhales.

Because Jughead was right about one thing, in that regard.

Feelings _can_ be hard to shake.

She watches him light a match, watches as he protectively cups the little flame with his hands, watches as he carefully places it within the wood stove. Watches as the fire reaches the crumpled newspaper and kindling, watches as orange and red burst to light and life.

Warmth, the gift he always gives her, teasingly as it might often be wrapped.

She bites her lip, and quickly glances away when he turns around and sees her eyes upon him. Betty wraps her arms around her ribcage, shivering slightly. The wind howls loudly beyond the kitchen window now, and she doesn’t know how she missed the building storm before, especially since she knew it was coming. (Had been tracking weather websites all week—Betty Cooper is nothing if not thorough.)

But Jughead—god, Jughead—he’d gotten in her head, under her skin, and he’d distracted her. Of course they aren’t going anywhere, not with a Nor’easter laying siege upon them.

 _Of course,_ she thinks. _Of course._

.

.

.

 _Of course_ has become something of her mantra over the years.

It began in her childhood bedroom, late one teenaged summer night, when the sky was still pink well into the late evening, her whole room rosy beyond and yellow between, lying back on her bed, her fingers running over the little key necklace laid over her heart, listening to Jughead as he went through the article he’d written that week, ready to be printed with the start of the school year.

She’d just gotten back from Los Angeles, and everything about home felt heightened and welcoming after a long couple of months surrounded by strange faces and places. Her mother’s hot chocolate, Pop’s diner, her pink wallpaper, the boy on her floor.

Jughead was still furious about the Twilight Drive-In closing earlier that month, and she remembers pushing up on her elbows and watching him there on the carpet, his hands gesturing airily before him. But she cannot remember what he was saying, because all she was thinking was about how suddenly handsome he looked.

How his mouth moved when he spoke, those down slanting lips, the big dipper that led from his eye to his cheek. Even the beanie, which she always thought made him look younger, couldn’t stop her roaming eyes.

“Betts?” He’d said, and she’d realized that he’d been saying her name. “I mean, it’s not just me, right? You’re with me, you get it too?”

She knows she’d blinked, and even though he’d been ranting about the Twilight, she _got it_ —got something else entirely.

 _Of course,_ she’d thought. It was never Archie, it was never the relationship of her parents that she wanted to replicate, that was never the meaning she wanted, the flutter of a heart she’d only read about in her favorite books.

_Of course it’s you._

_Of course_ appeared again, later into that very summer, in the very same bedroom, when she’d been so sure he’d been about to kiss her. How he’d stared at her lips, the choked word caught in his throat.

And then he’d pushed back, and then acted like it never happened. And of course she’d read into things, of course this was her curse, to only develop feelings for the people she could never have, of course this was going to be Archie all over again.

So she swallowed the thought in routine, just like any of the other bitter pills she took at seven o’clock sharp every night.

Sure, she’d mustered the courage to confront Archie over her crush, but truthfully, she’d gone into it knowing how it would end. She’d known she just had to say it, to get it out there in order to get over it, and that Archie would respectfully turn her down, and then things would settle.

But that wouldn’t work with Jughead.

If he didn’t feel the same way, she had suspected he’d malfunction trying to wrap his head around it—though, even if it was mutual, he’d probably have the same reaction. He could pull away, push her away, retreat away, completely unsure how to navigate those kind of troubled waters.

And she couldn’t risk that.

Because even then, with it so fresh in her heart, she knew Jughead was a choice she couldn’t take back, stakes that felt so immeasurably higher, even though the situation felt frustratingly familiar.

Archie was different; Archie was Archie, and was predictable—Jughead, she could lose forever.

Jughead, who teased her when the snow fell. Jughead, who alone she trusted with her book collection, who shared her reading list. Jughead, whose dry and acerbic monologues about life made her feel grounded when the rest of her life felt intoxicatingly pink and overwhelmingly static.

Jughead, who made her laugh. Jughead, who could run.

No—better not to risk it. And most days, she was satisfied with this safe choice. She well and truly felt at terms with it, and it wasn’t as if she spent every waking hour thinking about kissing him; it was the reason she never admitted it to Veronica, although Betty’s sure she’s suspected it, because if she knew would absolutely make it her life’s ambition to make sure they ended up married.

Admitting it to anyone really, even someone removed like Kevin, would make it real, something to deal with, and she’d gotten so comfortable with it, that she didn’t know how to make a change.

It’d become her shadow, something she was used to, and really only thought about when the light hit just right. _The sky is blue, and sometimes I want to kiss Jughead._

But when he began dating Sabrina just after college graduation, the first person she’d ever really seen him pursue, she’d thought it once again: _of course._

Of course this was his type, because she was nothing like Betty. Sure, they were both blonde, and could probably be mistaken for one another by Oliver Sacks, but in terms of personality, Sabrina was everything Betty was not.

Spunky, rebellious, looked good with a frown and a pout, wore exclusively black clothing, loved all the same sketchy bars and loud music and waxing films as he did—of course.

Betty had been dating Adam by that point, and there was the one time they tried a double date night, still the single most awkward experience she’s ever had to suffer through.

Adam, in his crisp, ironed button up, and Sabrina, in her dark leather jacket, had spent the entire evening staring at each other like they were a freshly touched down alien life form. In turn, Betty and Jughead had instead spent their time fighting over everything from the movie to the meal.

Up until that point, she’d honestly thought she’d moved on from him, honestly thought she’d finally figured out how to put her feelings behind her. But after that night, she had known once again that she was jealous, picking fights because of it, and had broken up with Adam not long after, as it wasn’t fair to either of them for her to date him while still smothering feelings for one of her best friends.

Sabrina and Jughead hadn’t lasted much longer themselves, and to Betty’s knowledge, he hasn’t dated since. And neither has she. After Adam, she’s not sure she can find anyone else, not when she knows who she wants.

Sometimes she wonders—sees the way he looks at her sometimes, thinks of all the little things, like knowing which food she’ll want to put on her plate, all the little touches, the way his hands seem to find themselves on her shoulders so often.

Sometimes she wonders—if they are actually already in a relationship.

Not in a _boys-and-girls-cannot-be-friends_ sort of way, a theory she staunchly refuses to accept, but in the way he’s her first phone call, and he always answers. The fact that there’s so much about each other that they know so well, the fact that they always run errands together, always see movies together. Sometimes they just feel like dates, if all she was to do was take his hand.

Sometimes she wonders—if she’s gotten it all backwards. If they’ve been wasting time.

Which brings her to present, both of them alone in this pretty, secluded cabin, with snow piling up alongside all edges of the house, a fire building, a hearth heart, and how alone she feels with him.

The chicken is prepped now and the oven beeps, so she bustles around for oven mitts, finding them in a nearby drawer, and pops it in, setting a timer on her phone. Jughead has fused onto the couch, his laptop across his knees.

He looks up as she moves from the kitchen, gathering her suitcase and purse from the where she left them by the front door. “I’m going to go unpack and pick a room,” she says, sighing. “It’ll be about an hour for the chicken to roast, if you’re still hungry.”

“Okay,” he says, after a very long pause. He looks as though he’d like to say something else, but doesn’t, so she trails up the creaky stairs, poking her head into a few of the bedrooms that run down the long hall. She picks one that overlooks the back of the house, where there’s a frozen pond, a view that she’s sure will be beautiful once the wind stops thrashing the snow around.

She peels out of her jeans, laying them on top of the ancient looking quilt on the bed, and shrugs into leggings. Instinctually, she almost takes off her bra, but remembers whom she’s with, and instead just changes into a thermal and a thick, bulky but cropped pink turtleneck.

Topping off the look with her fuzzy reindeer socks and the slippers she’d brought, she attempts to dawdle a few more moments putting the rest of the clothes she brought into a drawer, until all that’s left in her suitcase are the games and cards she’d packed for five people.

She leaves the rest of it on the bed and trots back downstairs, her book in hand, as the room is freezing and all she wants is to sit by the fire, even if she has to deal with some awkward silence.

But his headphones are on by the time she takes a seat in front of the flames, cross-legged, her book in her lap. For a long moment, all she can hear is the clacking of his fingers on the keys, and the cracking of the fire. It’s peaceful.

Betty pulls out her bookmark and begins to read, though after a few minutes on the same paragraph, knows she won’t be getting anywhere. _Safe, safe, safe;_ Jughead’s words still rattle around in her head, mocking her ex boyfriends, and she knows—and hates—how right he was.

And maybe that’s her real issue. She just wants everything to be safe. She’s risk-averse; she doesn’t want change, because thus far change hasn’t always looked good to her.

Polly changed when she had her twins, her parents changed when they found out about the pregnancy. And now Archie and Veronica will change, now that they’re getting married, and will probably want kids of their own in a couple of years.

It clicks.

“You were right,” she hears herself say. There’s a break in the moment, and she looks over to see Jughead pulling his headphones down around his neck, his eyebrows raised. “You were right. _Not_ about Archie—but…the engagement, it upset me.”

Jughead puts his laptop aside, as if signaling for her to continue.

She pulls her hair from its ponytail in order to run her fingers through it, exhaling. “You know, my whole life has been about being on track. In middle school you have to do well on the placement tests to get into the right high school classes, to get the right grades to get into the right college, to get the right degree to get the right job to get the right life,” she says quietly, staring into the fire.

A flame cracks.

“That was my parents’ world, their expectations. And I thought I’d broken that habit, their rules, and played by my own, but I’m just realizing…I did it all anyway,” she continues, biting on her lip. “And somehow, in spite of that, I still feel like…I’m being left behind. I’m off schedule, I’m out of premeditated plans, and that freaks me out, even if that was kind of the goal.”

She doesn’t know when he gets up and sits across from her in front of the wood stove, but at some point he does, his eyebrows knotted as he joins her, cross-legged.

Her eyes flick over his face. “I know this is the happiest my sister has ever been. Since having her kids, I mean. And I love them too, but Juggie, I saw the way her life changed _overnight_. I never get to see her anymore, just her, and I was really looking forward to having some time with her this weekend. Change just…”

“It usually sucks,” he murmurs in soft agreement, finishing her sentence, his fingers rubbing soothingly into her knee.

She passes him a thin smile. “Seems that way, at least. And it’s like…I knew the proposal was coming, I helped him pick out the ring. But I just figured he’d be doing it on Valentine’s Day, because, well…it’s Archie. So I was already feeling down about missing Polly, and sad about how our lives feel so different, that I just felt _blindsided_ by the engagement. Their lives are going to change overnight too, like everyone is going to move on and get married and I’ll still be…stuck, where it’s safe, where I don’t know how to ask for what I really want.”

With that, she lets out another long breath, and it feels like the one she’s been carrying around all year.

“Betty,” he says slowly, in a tone that wants her to meet his eyes. “Look—I get that. All of that. Trust me, more than you realize, I _get_ that. Really, I mean, if you knew…”

The expression on his face is shifting as he briefly glances off, as if worming through the words, as if he really does get it, as if it’s not just her wrestling with all these thoughts. And by that alone, suddenly, she feels the ache in her chest begin to patch over.

Finally, he continues, “But what I said about your relationships being safe, I swear, I was just projecting. I didn’t mean to make you feel worse about everything, and I shouldn’t have assumed it was about Archie, of all things.”

“But that’s what I’m saying. I chose what I knew wouldn’t change anything. You were right, my relationships _were_ safe,” she says, sighing.

He pauses. “Maybe, yeah. But mine was like that too—they were what they were. And trust me, you are not going to be left behind, okay? You’re Betty Cooper, editor extraordinaire, a neighborhood Hitchcock blonde. I’ve never seen you fail, and there’s no way you’re _not_ going to find what you want. But until then, you’ll always have me.” He smiles, but there’s something watery about it. “I’m pretty sure I’m doomed for a lonely bachelorhood, anyway.”

“Don’t talk like that,” she tuts, shaking her head. She hates it when he’s self-deprecating. “You don’t see yourself the way others see you.”

Jughead looks somewhat taken aback, the warm light of the fire catching in his eyes. And then it passes, replaced with the dubious expression he so often wears like a glove.

“You mean people don’t see the aloof, tough, scary Hell’s Angels exterior I’ve been working so hard on? All those years, _wasted,”_ he jokes, but she just rolls her eyes.

“Juggie, leather jacket phase notwithstanding, you are not that aloof or tough, I hate to break it to you,” Betty says, her lips pursing against a smile.

“You didn’t say I wasn’t scary though,” he points out, grinning now.

“Sorry, you’re right, let me amend: I’m shaking in my slippers,” she replies, nose wrinkling.

He laughs, his hands moving from her knee down to her crossed ankles, where his fingers begin to trace over the shearling wool that lines the outside of her slippers. “I can’t believe you brought your own slippers,” he says, sighing at her, almost fondly.

“I can’t believe you have the nerve to judge anything I brought, since in five minutes, you’re going to ask to play poker with the very nice, new deck of cards I packed,” she replies, her eyes widening playfully.

“Maybe,” he says, in a would-be-casual voice. His fingers brush over a bare stretch of skin between her leggings and her socks, and the touch is still electric, even though it’s hardly the first time. He stares at his hand, and then moves it off her ankle and into his own lap. “I’m sorry we fought, by the way.”

“It’s okay. It’s a truth I needed to hear,” she says quietly. “That’s what friends are for, anyway. Uncomfortable truths.”

“Oh, okay, now I see why you guys keep me around, considering that’s my specialty.” He says it lightly, but it sounds dangerously self-critical again. “Lording over my friends with social tactlessness.”

“Stop,” she sighs, reaching forward to cover his hands with her own. “I really don’t like hearing you talk that way. Sometimes it makes me worry you don’t know how much…we all care about you, Juggie.”

His eyes are very soft all of a sudden, the dancing fire reflected there, and Betty realizes that the motion to touch his hands had her leaning in very close, nearly a breath from his own, and suddenly she’s taken back in time to a pink bedroom, where she’d thought he might want to kiss her.

And then—with a loud, cryptic whirring sound, the entire house appears to deflate.

The lights overhead in the living room flicker out, and Betty looks around to see the kitchen has fallen into shadow as well.

The fire roars brighter, while the wind seems immeasurably louder beyond the window, rattling at the glass, and it’s only mid-afternoon, but the storm darkens an already low-slung sky.

Jughead is staring at the ceiling, his shoulders completely sunken. “Shit.”

.

.

.

He makes the call to the utility company while Betty goes to the oven to check on the chicken. Luckily, the timer only had about ten minutes left on it, so pulling it out now should still be fine, and even more luckily, she’d brought ice packs and coolers to keep the groceries cold during the long drive, so they can still store their food.

Jughead trots back into the kitchen, wearing a scowl she hasn’t seen on his face in a long time. “National Grid says it’s a downed line from the storm, but they can’t get anyone out until the blizzard lets up. Which supposedly could be anywhere from a couple hours to fucking _tomorrow,”_ he says, grumbling as he shuffles over to the sink. He tests a nozzle, which thankfully still spurts out a clear liquid. “At least we still have water.”

“I don’t know if we should drink it, though, we don’t know how the pump is set up. Good thing I bought water bottles at the store. And this is a gas stove, so we at least can still cook. No heat, though,” she says, rubbing at her temples as she remembers how cold her bedroom was even _with_ the heat running.

“We’ve got fire and plenty of logs,” he reminds her. “And there are like a million quilts in this house, I don’t know if you’ve noticed. It’ll be like reverse princess and the pea, you stacked underneath all those blankets.”

“Ha, ha,” she says, although the joke does do a little to appease her building anxieties. She nibbles on her lip. “I think this weekend is cursed. First everyone slowly drops out, then we get snowed in, then the power goes out. I mean, what else could—”

“That’s asking for trouble,” he interrupts, half-seriously. “In movies, people always say that right before it gets even worse.”

“Okay, you’re right,” she replies, giggling, and then sucks in a large breath of steadying air. “We’re going to stay positive. We have fire, we have a gas stove, and we have water. And blankets. This is fine, this is great, this is…cozy.”

The grin drops off his face at that, but quickly turns his back to her in order to hide the expression that replaces it, under the guise of inspecting the baked chicken on the counter. “Good thing you brought all those games too, I guess, since I don’t have much battery left on my laptop,” he says finally, facing her with a mild smile. 

And that’s what they do, after Betty gathers all the candles she can find—of which there are a surprising amount, but perhaps that’s normal for a house in the middle of nowhere—while Jughead carves and serves the chicken, both of them deciding it’s best to eat it while it’s hot.

They settle back down in front of the wood stove fireplace with their food, cross-legged like before, Betty’s stack of board games, mad-libs, and cards piled up beside them.

And so their afternoon dwindles down in front of the fire, the sky darkening beyond, the winds whipping outside the walls, but it’s fun in spite of the building storm, him assuring her she has tells when she’s lying through a game of poker, her triumphant defeat of him anyway.

They cook the rest of the chicken and it’s bones into a broth, the kitchen now fully light by candles alone, and the soup for dinner warms her toes, or perhaps it’s the company.

It’s only after eating, after they’ve cleaned up and brushed their teeth with the water from the bottles she’d bought, that she remembers heavily that the power is still out, that the heat won’t come back on.

The bedroom that had looked so inviting early in the afternoon, promising a snowy view, feels dark and icy now, every whisper of cold leaking in. Jughead bids her goodnight, moving down the hall, and she pulls on every extra layer she can manage, knowing she won’t be able to sleep at all otherwise, and tugs the blankets up around her.

She blows out the candle she’d carried upstairs.

.

.

.

She’s freezing.

She’s gathered three quilts and is bundled up to her nose in the warmest sweaters she brought, but the storm is violent against the walls, howling loudly, and it feels like every couple of seconds a fresh blast of cold air leaks in through the old woods.

Betty knows she could try stuffing a spare shirt against the windowpane, knows she could try sleeping with her earmuffs on, but feels like none of that would truly work.

It might be past midnight now, but she’s sure Jughead is still awake, and so, before she can think any further on it, she gathers up her blankets, slides into her slippers, and pads down the hallway towards the room he’d claimed, which offers a bit of flickering light underneath the doorway.

She knocks, and after a moment, lets herself in. He’s sitting propped up in bed, reading by candlelight, and wearing a thick woolen sweater himself. It’s dark, but it almost looks like the one she got him last year.

“Juggie?” She asks, suddenly unwilling to budge from the doorframe, lest he turn her down. “Can I sleep in here?”

“You want to switch rooms? I don’t think they’re that different, but—”

She bites her lip. “No, no, I mean, can I sleep in here, with you?” For what feels like forever, he doesn’t say anything, so she adds, “I just…I can’t get warm, and the storm is so loud, I just think I’d sleep better in here. You know how I run cold.”

Against the distance and dim light, she could swear he smiles. “That I do. Yeah, okay.” He pats the spot next to him on the bed and she rushes over, laying her quilt collection over his own and quickly shuffling under the covers. There’s a bit of body heat already built up there, just as she’d hoped.

“It’s like the sleepovers in your old tree house,” she says, pulling the blankets up to her chin.

He smirks and rolls his eyes. “You act like your mom didn’t climb a tree to drag you out of there once she figured out that you were not at Josie’s. Also, we were eight, so a bit different.”

 _How so_ lies teasingly on her tongue, but it dies there, because that’s a game she might not know how to play. It’s different because they’re both adults, and it’s different because he’s someone she’s so firmly attracted to.

For a long while, he returns to his reading, and she snuggles up as close to him as she can get without it being awkward, trying to find as much warmth as she can, so that hopefully that will be enough to lull her to sleep.

It doesn’t really work, not with her mind still running through the day, through all the things they’ve said to one another. Through all the truths and realities she’s swallowed.

“I can’t believe you thought I still liked Archie,” she says, half-amused, half-grumbling.

Jughead lets his book fall limp in his grasp. “I didn’t, not really,” he says softly. “I just thought it was… Never mind.”

Betty props up one elbow, using that hand to cup her chin. “What? Say it.”

“I don’t want to fight again,” he sighs.

She turns her chin up at him so that he can see her whole face clearly. “We won’t. You can tell me.”

Appearing to deliberate it for a moment, Jughead then shrugs and puts his book on the bedside table. The candlelight flickers just slightly with the movement, the air around it briefly shifting.

“You said it yourself. Idea of what a life should look like, based on the person you’re with. I guess a part of me always wondered if that was what you really wanted.”

Betty’s fingers trace along the sheets underneath her pillow.

_He thought about the type of person you wanted to be with._

“I could’ve said the same for you, based on Sabrina,” she says under her breath, more to herself, unable to meet his eye. Finally, she does, and has no idea what to make of the look there, his eyebrows pinched, his mouth sloping down, suffering a thought.

“Jughead,” she decides to say, before she loses her courage. She shifts fully upright now, so that they’re both sitting against the headboard. “Do you ever think that…maybe we got too comfortable being cautious?”

“Probably, yeah,” he agrees, after a beat. “That’s why they call it a comfort zone.”

The candle seems to take a breath, the light swelling, or perhaps it’s just what she wants to see.

She looks at him, her heart beating much faster all of a sudden. “Aren’t you tired of it?”

Jughead sits straight as a board, but his Adam’s apple visibly bobs heavily against his throat. “Exhausted.”

They stare at one another—and she honestly doesn’t know who moves first, only that the wind howls, the candle flickers, and they are kissing, his mouth seizing upon hers.

She opens to him and he pulls her tighter, one hand on her jaw, the other rapidly trailing down her shoulder, down her waist, onto her leg, which she immediately throws over his own, shifting closer.

If she’d thought the accidental touch of her ankle earlier had been electric, she was wholly unprepared for the feel of his hands now, warm and wide and full of reverence, scattering around if he’d like to reach every part of her.

They continue to kiss with frenetic pace, so many years of longing and tension in each swipe of their lips, and to the point where she honestly loses track of how long, but she doesn’t care, as long as it’s happening, actually happening. 

“God damn, Betty,” he whispers against her mouth, and she freezes, unsure what that could mean. He seems to notice, pulling back in order to look her in the eye, one hand reaching up to brush a lock of hair off her forehead. “I’ve just wanted this for so long.”

“Me too,” she murmurs, throwing her arms around his neck as she straddles his hips in order to kiss him more fully. “I want you to touch me,” she adds in a breath, just along his ear.

He does.

It starts at her breast, which he cups underneath her sweater, their foreheads pressed against one another. It moves to her waist, which he grips with the other hand, holding her firmly against himself. He’s already hard beneath her, but seems unwilling to lower his hand any further.

“I’m on birth control,” she murmurs against his skin, hoping that’ll clear things up. “I want you.”

“Betty,” he sighs, and something in her tone has her stopping kissing his neck. “You should know… I’ve only been with one person. I mean, more than once, obviously, but I might not… I might not be…”

It’s her turn to push the hair off his face. “It’s okay. However it goes, it’s okay.”

He stares at her, and then finally, nods.

They laugh as he peels her out of the many layers she’d plied on in order to fight off the chill—though she certainly doesn’t feel cold anymore—giggling through his stuttered _Christ, how many sweaters can one person wear._

He makes her come on his fingers first, and despite whatever fears he might’ve had about experience, based Betty’s first impression of it, she thinks they were unfounded.

They come together then, her fingers tracing over his shoulder blades as he nestles over her, the sweat on their skin lit by only the glow of the candle, the light as yellow as the golden hour of sun, breathing each other’s names. A sung staccato, and then it’s over.

For a long while, he lays on top of her, his whole body covering hers with warmth. She stares out the window, her lips curved into a smile she thinks she may never lose.

The world seems at peace now beyond the glass.

The wind has finally stopped.

.

.

.

Afterwards, after they finally untangle and he rolls off of her, after much whining on her behalf about him having to leave the bed to go clean up, she herself pulls back on the first layer of her clothes and follows him into the bathroom to do the same.

He kisses her against the sink, and together they walk back to the room and slide back under the covers. She slips her legs between his. “You said you’ve wanted this for a while,” she says quietly, still unable to lose her smile.

Jughead snorts. “For as long as I knew what any of this was,” he says, in a slightly weary tone, as if he’s latently admonishing his younger self. “I tried to tell you, once. In high school. I told myself that if I didn’t do it then, I wouldn’t ever, and somehow when I lost the nerve…that became a self-fulfilling prophecy, I guess.”

“I remember that day,” Betty says quietly. “In my room.” He nods, and she pauses. “We wasted a lot of time.”

He grins. “We’ll make up for it,” he says, and she burrows closer. He seems to mistake the motion for shivering, because then he rolls over and plucks one of her sweaters from the floor, offering it to her.

“You run cold,” he reminds her, his old air of teasing, and she knows in that moment that the type of change she was afraid of will not come.

Betty shakes her head. “Not right now,” she whispers, and kisses him.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: as time goes by by billie holiday, and the nearness of you by ella fitzgerald and louis armstrong. :) 
> 
> so, god forbid i fulfill a very straightforward and fluffy prompt, right? but since the crux was going to be snowed in bed sharing, i figured i had to take the long way to get there, and do it a different way, because so many others have done it (so wonderfully) that i wanted my own full spin on it.
> 
> long-term pining was an interesting challenge, as i think it's one of those things that can come off as kind of...self-loathing? to suffer through not confronting strong feelings for so long comes from a deep place, and often i think one that becomes more about getting comfortable with your fears, rather than learning to face them.
> 
> and me and my metaphors, so. hopefully everything came full circle, and i really hope you enjoyed this little two-shot vignette into what a canon divergent bughead life could be like. :) 
> 
> anyway, pretty please drop me a review, and the rest of my review replies are coming shortly, but i really appreciate comments so much. i sometimes get pretty down when i see hit count vs review count, so...it would make my day if you could let me know what you thought!


End file.
